I step forward carefully.
Garen's voice cuts the room like a thunderclap.
"Stop. Right there."
I stop. Not because he ordered it. Because the voice arrived at my body before my brain processed the syllables.
"You think a boy like you can pass himself off as Alden? With that miserable energy?"
My mind sprints. First through every visual detail of the president, then through the room itself, scanning for everything I can grab in two seconds.
Garen has the face of a war statue—a granite jaw, blond hair in an immaculate military cut, glacial blue eyes the same shade Lola wore. There isn't a thread of stubble, isn't a trace of doubt anywhere on the bronzed face. Only the rigidity of a man born to give orders and watch them executed.
He isn't wearing a suit. He's wearing a tailored fabric armor in a blue so deep it borders on black, gold cufflinks dulled to a matte finish, glinting like military insignia. Six-foot-four of sheer command, military grit, and noble blood.
